At Last
by snarkmcsnark
Summary: The first time Nick Amaro and Amanda Rollins say 'I love you'.


_**AN** : SVU's season 16 finale is in less than 24 hours and I'm absolutely terrified about what could happen to Nick Amaro. Consider this story my mental and emotional preparation for the finale. The title comes from the Etta James song **At Last**. It's a sequel to **The First Time**. You don't necessarily have to read that one to understand this, but I recommend checking it out since I reference quite a few places and events that have happened in that story. Depending on how broken up I am about the finale, this may be my last Rollaro fic. Who knows? Maybe I'm just being emotional right now because I spent all day finishing this. _

_Read and please review. _

* * *

**Amanda**

 _{At last my love has come along  
_ _My lonely days are over and life is like a song}_

The TV screen turns to black right before he tosses the remote on the far end of the couch. It sinks between the cushions but he makes no effort to reach for it. Instead, he leans back and closes his eyes. He mutters something about the Frank Maddox trial and wanting to avoid hearing about the raging narcissists involved. He's never been fond of watching C-list celebrities sound off and pretend to be credible journalists. It pisses him off to see the talking heads spout bullshit about cases and world issues they know jack shit about. When he finds out that you watch this garbage, instead of just reading the paper, you feel a little deflated. But you try to rationalize it anyway; even though justifying your preferences to some guy is not something you would've never done before.

"It gets me riled up and keeps me distracted from thinking about the cards," you explained. "It's, like, I have this mental argument with the person on TV and I always win and it gives me the kind of rush that doesn't leave me 20 grand in the hole."

Propping his head on your shoulder, he exhales deeply. He smells good – that warm, slightly spicy aftershave spiked with a bouquet of your white floral body wash. His damp skin presses against yours as rivulets of water drip from the glossy curls on his head down to your shirtsleeves. You both sit and stare at the blank screen for about a minute before he pulls you into his strong arms.

You've been doing this for close to two months now. Since your first kiss at Duffy's, you've been sporadically meeting like this. The first week, you were both unsure what to make of it because you both knew it went against pages upon pages of departmental regulations. But the kisses, the sex, the pillow talk, the sense of comfort – they were all too good to pass up. So, it became a game of excuses for a while. You'd get 'innocent' drinks after work, make out and blame it on the buzz, promise to part ways only to part your legs once he's maneuvered you into the bedroom. By the third week, the game was up and you came to an unspoken agreement to become friends with benefits, fuck buddies, or whatever the kids are calling it these days.

It's hard to resist. Because, while cable "news" and "reality" television are a decent distraction, nothing has kept you on the road of sobriety quite like sleeping with Nick Amaro. Getting tangled up in the sheets with him gives you a kind of rush that you can't even begin to explain. The kind of rush that absorbs you in its whirlwind, spinning you around so fast you don't remember what solid ground feels like anymore.

You sit here and stare at the unmoving scene before you. His arms are wrapped around you and your cheek is pressed up against his cool chest. You press your lips over his collarbone and drag them up towards his neck. He tugs on his bottom lip and suppresses a groan when your teeth graze against his pulse. He lifts you up and pulls you over his lap. The buttons on your shirt snap open. The towel slides off his hips. Your hands reach down between your bodies and you stare at his face – smooth, freshly shaved skin and dark, passionate eyes. It's better than being at the blackjack table and seeing a ten and ace.

* * *

 **Nick**

"Maria got a job offer in LA," you say casually, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. "She asked me if I wanted to move down there."

Amanda's blue eyes peek through her blonde bangs. She's waiting for you to say something. She's wondering what answer you gave your ex-wife, whose visit was suspiciously sending her off to twice as many GA meetings in the past week. You haven't told her that you've been thinking about it. You don't know what you want, to be completely honest. But you do know that you don't want your kid to move across the country. Zara being in DC is hard enough, but you can always take a train or drive down to see her if you really missed her. New York to LA is a six-hour flight and after all the shit you've been through in the last year, you know you've lost all your vacation hours attending those mandatory retraining and anger management classes.

It would make sense for you to move. That's what good fathers do.

But you're a father to Gil, too, you remind yourself. And you've only known about your 10-year-old son for a year. You can't just leave him. And what about your Ma – who's going to take care of her?

But Zara needs you.

Amanda finishes every last drop of her drink and sets the glass down with a heavy thud. She looks peeved when she looks up to meet your eyes. "So, you're thinking of moving?"

You shrug your shoulders. "It's what's best for Zara."

A wry chuckle escapes her lips. "So, you're trying again with Maria, huh?" She looks down and curls her lip. You can see spite, bitterness, and jealousy. You know that look. You owned that look for the last stretch of your marriage.

"I don't know."

 _That's not the right answer, Nick. And you know it._

Refilling her glass, she furrows her brows and ponders your answer. She forces a tight smile as she lifts her glass and clinks it against yours. "To your marriage."

"Amanda."

"No, no," she says, waving her hand and shaking her head. "I get it. Even after that scene she pulled at the squad room and even after you've signed your divorce papers, you're still in love with her. No hard feelings, right?"

"I'm not…" you trail off. "I don't love her… like that."

She blows out a shaky breath and looks away. You can tell she doesn't believe you or doesn't want to believe you. You know you're not in love with your ex anymore, but you'd be lying to yourself if you said you wouldn't try to make it work for the sake of your daughter. You know how ludicrous that sounds – to stay in a loveless marriage – but you'd rather forsake your own sanity than have your daughter grow up without her father. So, yeah, you considered moving. But after sitting here across Amanda, and remembering the house you grew up in in El Barrio, and your son playing stickball last Saturday afternoon; this is home.

And you're not too sure which of those things sways your decision the most, but you decide right then and there that you're staying.

* * *

 **Nick**

You're pounding on her door. Frannie is scratching up the wood on the other side. Amanda hates that, and she'll probably scold you for encouraging her dog with your incessant knocks. You could have buzzed, but Mrs. Linkletter from down the hall had her hands full with groceries and you just had to help out. She let you into the building, even invited you for tea, but you politely declined. When she discovered you were here to visit the pretty blonde neighbor with the charming Southern accent, Mrs. Linkletter smiled brightly. She asked if she could be invited to the wedding. "You know, my husband and I were married in the Conservatory Garden in '64"

Amanda opens the door and she immediately pulls you inside. Her arms wrap around you and she holds onto you longer than you're both used to. Her head pulls back and she looks up to study your face. "I never thought I'd say this," she says, "but you look terrible in orange."

You raise a brow. "This one guy in the prison yard didn't seem to think so."

You order Chinese food and feast on fried rice and Kung Pao chicken while the two of you catch up on her favorite procedural drama. It's a little out there and way too focused on the main character's love life, but you can get on with it. Amanda seems to really like it, but you're not sure if it's for the cases full of holes or for the protagonist's hotheaded Latin partner. She always squirms down on the couch and tucks her chin behind a pillow whenever he comes on the screen. You'd be a little jealous if it wasn't so goddamn adorable.

Once the show is over and you're helping her clear the takeout boxes from the coffee table, you finally decide to ask her what's been casting doubt on your mind since you first heard it from IA.

"So, Wilkes dropped the charges."

She stops at the sink, turns the faucet on, and washes her hands. "I heard," she replies quietly. "Murphy told the squad."

"I suppose you didn't have anything to do with it."

Amanda spins around ready to challenge you, but when she sees the serious look on your face, she knows she can't lie to you. Her palms rest on the counter behind her, trying to create distance that's impossible in this too-cramped kitchen. She's not claustrophobic; but you can sense her compulsion to run away.

"What did you do?"

"I blackmailed his wife." She chews on her lip and trains her eyes on the spot of dirt on her kitchen rug. "I told her to get her husband to admit he hit you first, or else I'd bait him into downloading kiddie torture porn."

Running your hands through your hair, you walk out of the kitchen towards the hallway, where it feels like oxygen is easier to come by. You had a bad feeling she had something to do with the dropped charges, but never did it occur to you that it could be this bad. You didn't think she'd go rogue and threaten the wife with blackmail. What if it had backfired? What if they came to 1PP tomorrow and blew the whistle on Amanda? An overwhelming mixture of emotions consumes you; and you can't pick apart guilt from gratitude, or anger from disappointment.

"Amanda," you start, swallowing hard. "You can't put your career on the line like that. Not for me."

"Nick, it was my decision." Her head shoots up. She's staring back at you with narrowed eyes. "He was a sick freak… you said so yourself. He came back to the message boards as soon as he was released from the hospital. Someone needed to stop him."

"But it's not my call," you fire back. "I shouldn't have fought him." Pinching the bridge of your nose, you close your eyes and feel the guilt and shame eat away at your insides. Amanda jeopardized her job because of your lapse in judgment and your temper. There's no way she can risk her career and her recovery because you're this disaster magnet standing in her way. You can't do that to her. You have to go. You have to get out of here.

You shrug into your jacket and turn to her. She looks lost and broken, but you know even if it hurts like hell now, it's the right decision for her well-being. "Thanks for saving my ass… but please don't do it again, Mand," you plead. She doesn't want to listen though. She wants to protest and challenge you and tell you she did what she had to do in order to get you out of prison. And although she thinks the ends justify the means. And although you're so fucking grateful for her, you just can't watch your world crumble and drag her down to hell with you. "I'm not worth it."

* * *

 **Amanda**

 _{At last the skies above are blue  
_ _My heart was wrapped up clover the night I looked at you}_

The plan was to give him a taste of his own medicine. Twelve missed calls and sixteen text messages unanswered until you finally gave in one Saturday morning to pick up the phone. His voice was laced in relief as soon as the rings stopped and he knew you were on the other line. He asked if you were free and if he could take you and Frannie out for a drive. You stopped at a secluded beach.

It's late September and the summer crowd is gone and replaced by brisk wind and surging tides. The tall grass whips against your legs as you walk down the dilapidated boardwalk. You draw your knees close to your chest and watch as Nick throws a stick down the beach; Frannie leaps and sprints down the shore. She comes back to return the stick and Nick kneels down and lets her lick and kiss his face.

On the way here, Nick apologized for walking out of your apartment after you admitted to blackmailing Wilkes' wife. He said sorry for all the unanswered phone calls, which you tried hard to forget all summer. You called maybe five times in the week after it happened, and then you just stopped trying. But he was really broken up about it and really apologetic. He said seeing you at the station in Queens, where he was now working as a police officer, made him realize just how much of an ass he'd been.

Nick wanted to give _whatever this is_ another shot.

He doesn't say 'us' and he doesn't say the word 'relationship'. He doesn't even say, point-blank, that this apology is solely to get back into your pants; but you know that's probably what he means. And you know it's possibly the worst idea to put yourself in this situation again and have your heart broken. _No._ Not broken, just slightly bruised by some guy. But you can't refuse him, because you want this too. You need this shot just as much as he does, maybe even more.

You're both sitting on a piece of driftwood, your toes digging into the sand. The sun is setting in the horizon and Frannie Mae is digging a hole somewhere slightly left of your peripheral vision. His fingers are interlaced with yours and your head is on his shoulder, which is broader than you remembered. He kisses your forehead and you look up to face him. It's strange to think that you spent the better of two months kissing him, memorizing the softness of his lips and the litheness of his tongue. And now, as you're about to kiss him again after a summer of being apart, you feel a little shy and nervous. You wonder if he tastes and feels the same as you remember; you wonder if your dreams still matched reality.

Your lips meet his just as a breeze picks up and blows your hair towards his face. Strands get caught in your kiss, but he keeps his mouth locked over yours. His fingers brush the hair away as he deepens the touch. Nick doesn't taste or feel the same as you remembered; it's infinitely better. You pull away and try to catch your breath. The tide swells and crashes on the shore and it feels like the water is trying to match the drumbeat in your chest.

He looks at you with soulful eyes full of honesty and affection. "I missed you."

 _I wish you had told me that sooner._

Nodding your head, you close your eyes and reach up to kiss him again. It's muscle memory doing this, yet everything feels new and your body feels alive again. Summer becomes a haze – a distant memory – and you're ready for the turn of the season and the change of the leaves. You're ready to move forward. As his lips glide over yours and slip down to the corner of your mouth, you imagine what it would be like to be _with_ Nick. Not just as friends who sleep together for release or comfort, but to be with him like a normal couple in a healthy relationship. You want to know what it's like to go on a date with him. To watch movies with him and share a giant bag of popcorn. To not have to hide _whatever this is_ from everyone.

You couldn't tell anyone before because you risked one of you getting transferred out of the unit, but now that Nick's off the squad, you're free to see each other. You can actually take the next step and make things official. Maybe you can finally let your emotional inhibitions go and follow your heart – for once.

He pulls away from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours.

"I talked to Liv," he says breathlessly. "She talked to people from 1PP and IA, and it looks like there's a good chance of me coming back to the squad. Two weeks, if all the paperwork is done on time."

You're happy for him. You've missed having him around the squad room. This is what you want. But why does it feel like you're trying to convince yourself? You force a smile and meet his eyes. He's so happy and excited to come back that you feel a pang of guilt for momentarily wishing that he wouldn't return to a job that, he felt, gave him purpose. The smile on your face reassures him that you're just as thrilled to hear the news. But the selfish part of you longs for the kind of relationship you were just never meant to have.

* * *

 **Amanda**

 _{I found a dream that I can speak to  
_ _A dream that I could call my own}_

Nick's back at his desk and back in his suits. The transition is so seamless it's as if he was never gone. The Tensley Evans case is closed, but it's still up in the air whether or not the starlet's demons will catch up with her again. Apparently, she has a new role as an inmate in Orange is the New Black, which is a shame because you actually like that show but you don't think you can watch it anymore having met Tensley, and knowing what she's been through.

The squad is out for drinks. Part of it is to celebrate the rising number of your closure rate and the other part is to welcome Nick back into the squad.

Before he came back, you mentioned to Liv that Nick was really working his anger management program. You figured you'd help him along since he was growing more and more impatient as the days passed. Nick coming back would be good for the understaffed squad and for his sanity (there's only so many traffic citations he can write before he's cynical and snippy). Even though, initially, you were a little selfish about not wanting him back for the sake of furthering your… arrangement, you eventually came around. It's not like rules against sleeping with co-workers are the only things stopping the two of you from pursuing this thing further.

At the time, you were just being a hopeless romantic. You chalk it up to being at the beach, watching the sunset, and kissing Nick for the first time since May.

Casually bring it up, you thought, was the way to go about it. But Liv has always been one of the most perceptive people you've ever known, so it was foolish of you to think 'casual' would get right past her. She studied you with suspicious eyes and asked if you had been keeping in touch with Amaro. You could've asked her the same thing, since she was frequently calling him to update him on the developments of his return, to coordinate babysitting schedules, or to just chat about parenthood. Since getting back together with Nick, it suddenly became clear that Liv and Nick had been bonding all summer. Noah being the glue that held their 'modern family' together. And although you were past it and you had forgiven him about the unreturned phone calls, you couldn't help but feel jealous that he was playing house with Liv while you sat in bed with your tub of Ben & Jerry's.

Liv wasn't the only one suspicious. Fin had known, to some extent, about you and Nick. He's never actually said it but he's implied that he knows about the complicated nature of your non-relationship. He advised you not to fool around with your co-workers, but he said that if you were going to sleep with someone then best it be Nick because, "loverboy won't be able to live with himself if he broke your heart."

But you're not worried about your partner because you know he'll always have your back and he'll never rat on you. It's the new guy – Carisi. Even Nick pulled you aside and said that you both should be a little more careful around him, lest new guy find out and open his big mouth. Maybe Nick's paranoia is rubbing off on you, because as you're sitting here in the bar, you can feel Liv and Carisi's eyes trained on the two of you, waiting for you to slip.

The staring gets a bit too much so you hatch a plan to squash whatever sort of speculation is stewing in their heads. You get up from the table and head to the bar. There's a man who's been sending you looks all night. He smiles when he sees you approaching. First, it's friendly conversation. _What's your name? What do you do for a living? That accent's really cute; where are you from?_ He seems nice, eloquent, and attractive in that born-and-bred-in-the-Upper-West-Side sort of way.

Next, you lean in a little closer. You flirtatiously banter back and forth. The man wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in a little closer. His aftershave reeks of amber and bergamot and his fingers dig into the small of your back a little too hard. He orders you a drink even though you politely refuse, but he insists. "Don't they teach you proper etiquette down in Georgia, sweetheart?"

You shakily pick up the glass. There's a strong presence standing behind you. You glance over your shoulder and you see Nick, clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, leaning against the bar. He doesn't even look sideways when he speaks to you. "We need to talk."

He leaves and disappears down the stairs. You wait thirty seconds before you excuse yourself, extract yourself from the man's grip, and follow Nick down to the basement. The hallway is narrow and dimly lit. A drunk girl stumbles out of the rest room and giggles as she nearly knocks you over. Nick appears at the end of the hallway and he pulls you towards him.

"What the fuck was that?"

You shrug your shoulders, looking around to make sure you were having this conversation – argument – in private. The last thing you both need is to have one of your co-workers finding the two of you at each other's throats in a public space. "Sarge and Carisi are getting suspicious. I thought I'd throw them off."

Nick chuckles darkly. "So that's your idea of throwing them off?" He runs his hands through his hair before he clasps them around the back of his neck. You know this routine. He's frustrated and jealous and he's trying to calm himself with those anger management exercises. "You don't just walk away from our table and flirt with some jackass right in front of my face."

"What's your problem?" You hiss, narrowing your eyes. "It's not like we're exclusive."

"Oh, so it's cool with you if I start messing around with other women." He smiles wryly and shakes his head. "Good to know."

 _Silence._

"Yeah, I thought so," he snaps bitterly. Nick sidesteps you and heads down the hall. You grab his wrist and pull him back. Your lips crash on his and the next thing you know, he has you pinned against the wall. Your arms coil around his neck as he lifts you off the ground. Your legs wrap around his hips, which are digging into your abdomen. He's devouring you in this kiss. Whatever it is that you're fighting about – the flirting, the jealousy, or the disagreement about your exclusivity – none of that is at the forefront of your minds. The only thing that you can be present for is the feel of his tongue slipping between your lips, his fingers wandering underneath your shirt, and his hardness demanding your full and undivided attention.

* * *

 **Nick**

It's another Irish bar in Kips Bay where you find Amanda. The place isn't too far from your usual spot, which makes you think she had every intention of going there before she realized she didn't want to be found. When you open the door, there's no bell to signal your arrival. There's no steel guitar strumming an eighties power ballad. She's sitting at the bar, her blonde hair tied up in a messy knot, her shirtsleeves are rolled up carelessly over her arms. You walk towards her and see her back slouch and her eyes roll back before she even takes a look at you.

"I thought you'd be smart enough to get the hint."

"Nah, I reply, taking the unoccupied barstool beside her. "I'm kind of a dumbass when it comes to reading women."

She smiles unevenly and shakes her head before she polishes off the rest of her drink. Signaling the bartender, she asks for a refill and you ask for what she's having. There's still some tension and animosity lingering in the air. It's been hours since a sniper rifle blew Holden March's brains out with Amanda standing less than two feet from the kid. She's still pissed about the call ESU made, calling them soulless and trigger-happy. You're upset about the call, too, but you're not taking this nearly as hard as her. Sure, Holden wasn't exactly your biggest fan; he made that very clear when you attempted to touch his bike. But he was just a kid – a messed up kid, who could have had a chance at staying alive at a mental institution, before a bullet to the head made the ultimate decision for him.

Amanda read the manifesto. You know, because a copy of it was sitting on the nightstand in your bedroom. You two just had sex, as Holden cleverly suspected you were doing. You crashed from exhaustion, woke up at four in the morning to find your bedmate leaned up against the headboard, flipping through pages of this kid's proclamation against women.

"Are you okay?" It's a ridiculous question, but you're not sure how to begin so you take a chance with that one. You just want her to talk to you. Lately, she's been retreating and holing herself up. You still fuck and sleep on the same bed on occasion, but gone are the pillow talks and the snarky, playful banter.

She shakes her head. "I had to scrub my face raw to get his blood off my skin." She licks her lips and clamps them tightly. Her hands run down her thighs and clench down on her knees as she pivots towards you. Blue eyes are bordered by telltale signs of her sleepless night. "I had him, Nick." Her voice breaks and a tear slips from the corner of her eye. She swipes it away with the back of her hand. "I had him… He didn't have to die."

"I know."

"No, you don't know!" She shoves you hard on the shoulder and your drink sloshes out of the glass. You're taken aback as you stare at her with wide eyes. Amanda appears shell-shocked and immediately regretful, but she doesn't address the shove. "You don't get it," she whispers.

"Oh," you scoff, setting your glass down on the counter. "I didn't stay up all night and read about Holden getting 'friendzoned', and I didn't try to talk him out of offing himself, so I must not know anything. That's rich, Amanda."

She rolls her eyes and turns back toward the bar, basically telling you she's done having this conversation.

"What's this about? Was it what he said about me? That shit about you being just another notch on my belt?" You ask incredulously, raising your arms up in defeat. "You know that ain't true."

"But maybe he's right…" she trails off. "I've always gone for the jerks… the guys who didn't put me first… the guys who just ended up using me and throwing me aside when it stopped being convenient."

You feel like you've just been run over by an 18-wheeler. Your throat feels dry and you blink hard to refocus on the woman sitting beside you. "Is that really what you think of me?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I know I'm not your first priority, not when you've got your kids, your career… and Liv," she says the last one barely audibly. "I don't expect you to put me first. I don't expect you to stay when this all goes to shit, so I get making the most out of convenience… I can't blame you for any of that because we both agreed to this, but it just got me thinking." She looks up from the counter and trains her eyes on yours. "Maybe it's not too late for me to be in a normal relationship. Maybe I should stop putting myself in the position where I'm bound to get hurt."

"Amanda." You take her hands in yours and your fingers interlace. "I'm never going to hurt you."

"You can't promise that."

"I can try."

She bites her lip and you can tell by the wistful look in her eyes that she believes you when you say you can try, but she's still doubtful about the promise. It's hard to talk about absolutes when you're both taking this thing one day at a time; but, right now, you can't imagine being without her. Amanda's right about deserving a normal relationship, where the man puts her first, adores her without worrying about professional boundaries, and loves her without fear or restraint. But selfishly, you can't stand to see that happen to her with another man. So, if that's what she wants then you'll work on it and you'll try to give it to her. You care about her too much to let it go just because your time is up. You'll reset the clock if you have to. You'll add more hours to the day.

"Nick." She leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. "I'm tired. Let's go home."

* * *

 **Amanda**

 _{I found a thrill to press my cheek to  
_ _A thrill I've never known}_

You fucked up. It was only right that you tuck your tail between your legs and grovel for forgiveness. What you did in that bar – picking a fight, egging him on, hitting him – that was inexcusable. Yeah, you were drunk but not drunk enough to forget. Yeah, you were angry that Liv and Nick were hell-bent on trying to put Paula Martin through a trial she clearly didn't want. And yeah, maybe you were projecting your own issues, especially after that trip to Atlanta…

The basement gym at the precinct is not like the yoga studio you've been frequenting since the summer (another distraction from those unreturned phone calls). There are no big windows overlooking the East River. The walls aren't painted soothing shades of sea foam green and aquamarine. Instead, the basement gym is a derelict space with rusty equipment and a weathered punching bag.

He goes down here when you're trapped in the precinct, working a case. Whenever there's a standstill, he retreats down to the gym to clear his head. He usually surfaces back with a new theory, and sometimes it works and sometimes you all scratch your heads and call him Sergeant Munch Jr.

A year ago, the whole squad would spend nights working a case until you all caught a break. Now, Liv goes home to be with Noah. Fin's using up all those lost hours. Carisi has night school. So, it's just you and Nick working until sunup and having sleepovers at the bunks.

The moment you walk into the gym, the musty scent fills your nostrils. It's far from the aromatherapy oils that permeate through your clothes after a class with your spacey, but incredibly sweet, yoga instructor. Nick doesn't hear you come in. He's in the zone, throwing right hooks and left jabs into a punching bag. His feet are shifting back and forth as if the bag could retaliate.

Your eyes meet briefly before he goes into a series of quick-fire punches that end with one solid blow that could knockout Manny Pacquiao. You feel something rise up your throat as you remind yourself of the last time you put your money on the boxer; _let's just say it didn't end well_. Nick walks past you but doesn't say a word. He leans down to pick up a water bottle sticking out of his duffel bag. He flips the cap open and shoots the water into his mouth. It doesn't seem to quench his thirst fast enough because he unscrews the nozzle and chooses, instead, to chug the water down.

"We need to talk," you start, sitting down on the bench where his bag is resting.

"Are you going to tell me you're sorry and ask me to forget about it?" He asks, raising his brow. "Or are we really going to talk?"

You know what he's indicating. It's always been your MO, that after a fight you can apologize but you never really address the problem. Instead, you wish to forget and run away from it. After working together for four years now, and being in this non-relationship for nearly a year, Nick knows how the story goes. He's no stranger to your hit-sorry-run.

"I won't ask you to forget about it, but –"

He rolls his eyes and chuckles darkly.

"Nick." The last thing you want is to fight him, but you just can't give him what he wants right now. He wants to know what set you off. He's not deliberately pushing to find out why you went on that tirade about people not wanting to be victims; but in the last 24 hours, it's all you've seen swirling behind those dark, brooding eyes. He pretends to be aloof but you've seen him staring at you all day, studying you and trying to figure you out. You're not sure when it will happen, but, god, you want to be able to tell him. If there's anyone in the world who you can trust to listen, it's Nick. But right now, you don't even know if you're ready to relive the nightmare.

"I'm sorry about what I said and what I did. I understand if you're done with me –"

He stops you. His hand reaches across the space between you and he rests it on your shoulder. "I never said that." Nick's chest is still panting from his workout. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. He exhales deeply. "When I said I was walkin' away, I didn't mean –"

"Oh."

Of course he's not leaving. It would take a lot more for Nick to just give up like that. What you did was horrible and, honestly, worthy of being left and abandoned. But knowing him and knowing how hard he fought for things and refused to give up – from his marriage to his career to even the simplest things like assembling IKEA furniture. Walking away was just an anger management tactic; it was never his solution to anything. Ever.

"I want to tell you why I flipped out last night. I'm just… I'm just not ready to talk about it yet. If it means anything, you'll be the first person to know."

He sighs and nods his head. "I understand… You know, I'll always be here for you, Mand. And I'm not saying that because I want to save you or pity you. I'm saying it because I care about you, and I hope you don't fault me for that.

Sighing deeply, you rest your palms on his chest. "Thank you for being here."

"Always."

It's an absolute. A promise that no one can really fact check until you're both dead or Armageddon arrives – whichever comes first. But you smile anyway knowing you're back in a good place. It's actually alarming how broken up you were in the last 24 hours since the fight, how scared shitless you were about losing him, which is crazy because you aren't even in a relationship. The feelings are there, for sure, but the labels are missing and the necessary words are on mute. But you smile anyway. All's forgiven but not forgotten; and now, at the very least, you both have hope of moving forward.

* * *

 **Nick**

"Rollins is going over her testimony with Barba tomorrow."

That's the last update you hear about Patton's trial before you call her. It goes straight to voicemail and you must've left six messages before the idea of tracking her phone crossed your mind. You know she wouldn't like that. So you tried her apartment first but no one was home. The next place on the list is Duffy's – your spot, the place where you two had a steady reserve of bottles under Rollins-Amaro, the place where you finally got the ball to tell her how you really felt about her.

The luck of the Irish is on your side as you step into the dark, dingy bar and see her tucked away in a corner booth.

When you slide into the booth, you mention that you heard she could be testifying to help Reese Taymor's case. She doesn't say anything. She just peels the sticker off her beer bottle – a habit she picked up from you. You sit in silence and decide to just wait it out, knowing she'll talk to you when she's ready. You don't know if it's going to be tonight, or those last moments when you're some old man ready to be pulled off from life support. But you'll wait.

She gets up but leaves her coat hanging. "Follow me outside," she says before she walks off. The bell rings. The neighborhood doesn't have the best bar scene and with it being January, the patios are tucked away and the streets are empty. Amanda is shifting from one foot to the next. Her arms are wrapped around her body to shield herself from below freezing temperatures.

"Running helps me talk," she starts, rubbing her arms to warm them down. Her words are interrupted by puffs of cold air escaping her rosy lips. "I'm going to run down the street and tell you what happened… why I left Atlanta… and you're going to keep up with me. If I stop running, my brain is gonna want to stop talking, so keep up, okay?"

You nod your head.

She stands on the sidewalk and stares back at you. She's not exactly dressed for a marathon, but she's wearing jeans and riding boots and there's no ice on the ground, so you think you're both safe to do this. Without warning, she sprints down the street towards Mount Carmel Place. You fall into step with her and keep up just like you promised. It's not a light jog. She's actually running and picking up speed.

"Kim was facing felony charges and Patton said he could make them disappear if I had sex with him." The words slipped out a normal volume but she said each word between shallow breaths. You keep running beside her, even when your mind wants you to stop and process. Even when you just want her to sit still so you can read her face. You cast a sideways glance but her eyes are focused on the end of the road.

"We met at a motel. He was drunk. I got on the bed. He offered me a drink, but I refused. He started grabbing me… pulling off my clothes."

She's gaining a few steps on you, because you don't hate where this is going and you're not sure if you can handle hearing the rest of it. But she's telling you and you promised you'd be here for her. You pick up the pace and catch her just in time as you both pass the church.

"I told him to slow down."

She runs faster. Her feet barely hit the pavement before she's flying again.

"I was begging him to go slow, but he got rough with me… he slapped me, banged my head against the headboard."

 _No. No. No. No. Please, god, no._

Her pants for air are punctuated with the crack of an imminent sob. "I remember feeling the back of my head and I saw blood… but then he took my wrists and pinned them down… then the room was spinning… I tried to get up."

"But he said he didn't take no for an answer."

"He used his knees to keep me down, he slammed my head again, he bit my lip until I could taste my own blood…"

You're still running and about to reach the end of the street that's overlooking the East River.

"He raped me."

Amanda stops when the street ends. She's hunched over, gasping for air. Within seconds, she's sobbing and it's taking over her entire body. The wails and whimpers are nothing you've ever heard from her. The shock that washes you draws out almost instantaneously and you find yourself encircling her in your arms. She cries into your chest, which feels like it's exploding from the run… from the fiery anger that's rising like lava… from the secret's she's been stowing away… from the pain she's held onto all this time. You hold her and kiss the top of her head, your lips dragging down to her temple. She pulls away and takes your hand. You walk back together to retrieve your coats.

You take a cab back to her place, where she starts crying again as soon as you reach her door. You hold her until her sobs quiet down and she falls asleep. You hold her when she wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. You hold her until the morning, when she puts on a brave face and heads to the courthouse to meet with Barba.

You hold her in the evening after the judge doesn't allow her to testify, after they call her rape an unsubstantiated allegation, after the law dismisses her truth.

You hold her.

* * *

 **Amanda**

 _{You smiled, you smiled oh and then the spell was cast}_

Touchdown JFK.

As the plane descends on the runway, you see the snow on the ground and the bright lights of the bustling city in the distance. It's a reminder that you're not in the warm, sandy beaches of Costa Rica. The flight attendant's voice is a pleasant soprano, but it's not that tranquilizing lilt of your yoga guru. While the gates and lines at immigration still have crowds of people, it's not nearly as busy as the other times you've been at the airport. A clock nearby tells you it's quarter past midnight. Once you have your passport cleared and your suitcase retrieved from baggage claim, you head out to Arrivals.

Arrivals terminals at airports always give you that warm, contagious feeling of happiness. Seeing friends and family reunited – it always manages to put a smile on your face. Your heart swells as a flight attendant wheels a grandmother towards her son and his growing family. The son bends down and embraces her. She rests her palm on her daughter-in-law's pregnant belly. Tears are shed and 'Te quiero's are exchanged.

"Amanda."

You don't expect your own welcoming party because you weren't planning on being chauffeured from the airport. But you did forward your flight itinerary upon Nick's insistence. News about missing planes got him more paranoid than usual, and you teased him about it but sent the email anyway. You don't expect him to be here so it catches you off guard when he's waiting with the rest of the families, friends, and lovers… and you suppose he best fits into that last category.

"What?" You raise your brow and smile teasingly. "No flowers?"

He casts a glance at a reunited couple. The man hands his girlfriend a bouquet of pink roses and bends her down to kiss her. They're young and in love and anywhere else, the sight would make you feel nauseous, but here at Arrivals, it makes your heart flutter.

Nick smiles ruefully. You don't think you said anything wrong. God, you were only joking about the flowers. But then you quickly realize it's not about that; there's something else on his mind. You start to wonder what the hell happened in New York while you were isolated in those ten blissfully boring days in Yoga Paradiso. He bends down to kiss you – not in the showy way like the young couple near you. But you melt into his kiss anyway, because the kiss finally makes you feel like you're home.

Like the gentleman he is, Nick picks up all your bags and leads you to the car. He asks about the retreat and he seems genuinely interested despite the exhaustion laced in his voice. You make a joke about learning to bend in places you didn't think had joints to bend, and showing him later when you arrive home. He chuckles softly but the laugh lines don't appear in the corners of his eyes. He's trying. You can tell he's really trying to put up this happy-you're-home act, but whatever it is that happened while you were gone… it's bad.

You get into the passenger seat while he stows your bags in the trunk. The car's parked on the fourth level and you have a nice view of the runway. Planes take turns taking off and landing. The driver's door closes and Nick releases a heavy breath when he sinks into his seat. The two of you just sit silently as you watch the scene of soaring and collapsing beams of light. It's actually pretty mesmerizing.

"My dad came back."

He tells you about the events of the previous week, from the unexpected visit to the squad room to the 'not guilty' verdict in court. Everything is said in a completely deadpan tone like he's rehearsed this and ascertained that he's kept out every ounce of subjectivity in his retelling of events. You feel for him when he tells you he had to take the stand against his father. Your heart aches for him when you learn that his family turned against him. You almost tell him that they'll come around eventually, but your experience with family hasn't been the greatest either, so you stay silent. It's not until he tells you about Nicolas' last visit to the squad room, before he left to pick you up at the airport, when you finally hear some emotion in his voice.

" _I am not you."_

That's what he told his father when the older man suggested that Nick rein in his anger before he, god forbid, takes it out on his daughter. He runs his hands across his face and groans exasperatedly. "Am I lying to myself?" You try to protest and tell him that he's nothing like his father.

"But he's right about the hatred. How it sits in my chest and how it never goes away… It's always there. When I see my Ma, it's always there at the back of my mind. When I think of being away from Zara, I think, god, my kid must hate me for not being around. Because as happy as I was the day my dad left our house, I still resented the fact that he was gone… that we couldn't be this normal fucking family." He shakes his head and scoffs. "And Gil… I can't even imagine what it was like growing up without a dad for nine years. Nine fucking years! I hold all this anger… this hatred for my father… but I'm no better."

You reach over to squeeze his clenched fist. His hand goes limp and your fingers interlace. You lift up your hands and your lips trace over his knuckles. The tension dissipates from his body and the fire in his eyes burns out.

"You're a good dad."

 _Trust me_ , you want to add. Because if there's anyone who knows the difference between good and bad fathers, it's a daughter who grew up most of her life without one. The fact that Nick worried for his kids, the fact that he tried even when he was dealt this hand – that made him a good dad. You haven't met the family except for Zara and his ex. But you do know from the phone calls and Skype conversations you've overheard that his kids adore their father. And you don't have to see him in that environment to know that, because you know Nick, and you trust that he's a good man.

You squeeze his hand a little too hard when a thought crosses your mind. It's like one of the planes jetting off and disappearing into the clouds. It's that quick before you stop it from rooting and taking a life of it's own. It's a silly thought that you decide to keep tucked away in a corner, never to be told.

 _You don't even want children_ , you remind yourself. But your heart warms because if it were to happen, by accident, choice, or fate, you could only picture yourself raising a child with Nick.

* * *

 **Nick**

The train jerks to a stop and you only have ten seconds to open your eyes, rise from the seat, work your way through the crowd, and make it out of the train. It's a close call but you make it to solid, stationary ground. It's been a rough week to say the least. Not that there are ever really any calm weeks in the streets of New York; but this week is particularly harrowing because it feels like you've lost one of your own.

Nadia Decotis.

She was working her way to becoming a cop. You don't really know her apart from the few times she passed a message along from one of the Chicago detectives. There was a conversation once by the copy machine when she asked if you were part Italian. Naturally, you two talked about food. She laughed because the two of you were totally playing into the stereotype, but at least you were both self-aware about it. You didn't know much about her background until the trial, when you found out about her sisterly connection with Erin. After the trial, everyone congregated at the bar. Yates was charged and the case was won, but this was no celebration.

Everyone was there but Amanda. She excused herself and said she needed to attend a meeting. She hugged Erin and reassured her that she'll get through this. You studied Amanda's face to see what was going on. She was working her program, no doubt, but you also knew she was flexible with her schedule; it was odd for her not to join you at the bar. You sat there nursing your drink while Jay, Erin, and Sergeant Voight spoke somberly about memories of Nadia. You were relieved Liv, Fin, and Carisi were there to listen and respond because you were just so out of it.

Not that you didn't feel anything for Nadia, but your narrow-minded brain kept worrying about Amanda. You tried to come up with plausible reasons for that spooked look on her face ever since you found the girl's body on the beach _. "She's the closest thing I have… I had to a sister."_ You remember Erin saying back at the precinct. Jay's hand was on her shoulder, trying to console her. You could tell Voight was heartbroken, too, but he tamped that emotion with rage.

 _A sister._

You made up an excuse about promising your son you would catch his baseball game. But you're not headed down to Queens and driving to the baseball diamond; you're in Amanda's neighborhood. You're emerging out of the subway station and walking up the block to the church where they hold her GA meetings. The heavy doors push open and there's a stream of people stepping out. They're mostly white, middle-aged men. There are two women in the group – one you recognize as Samantha, Amanda's sponsor. You wave at her and she waves back, smiling brightly. You'd never picture her to be a recovering gambling addict with her Schwinn bike, hand-painted helmet, and hemp clothing. But you would've never pictured Amanda to have those problems, too. Certainly not the day you met when you first shook hands with the chirpy, blonde transfer out of Atlanta.

She steps out and sprints down the steps before she finally sees you standing across the street. Looking both ways, you cross the road and meet her up on the curb.

"Hey."

"Hey." She smiles weakly and links her arm around yours. "You didn't stay for very long?"

"I was thinking about you," you say, hoping she doesn't go on the defensive and start building up her walls. "You haven't really been yourself since we found… since the beach. And I just wanted to check up on you and see if you're doing okay."

You expect her to nod and say she's fine, but she stops in her tracks. Amanda shakes her head and her face turns red and contorts like she's about to cry. You pull her into your arms and that's when she starts crying. It takes a few minutes for her to calm down and get a word out, but you're willing to wait for however long it takes, even if you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk and people at the café across the street are staring. When she pulls her head away from your chest, she chuckles softly and furiously wipes away at her tears because she's embarrassed that she's made a scene. "Shhh…"

She smiles up at you, her eyes getting lost in puffiness and feigned optimism. Taking her hand, you walk the rest of the way back to her apartment – back to the place that feels more like home than the house with your name on the mortgage. She sinks into the couch and cuddles with Frannie while you fill the dog's bowl with food. You ask her if she's eaten dinner and she tells you she had a donut during the meeting; it's not dinner but you know better than to push the issue. The couch dips when you join her, wrapping your arms around her shoulder and pulling her close. Your return is Frannie's signal to skedaddle and she runs off into the kitchen for her feast.

"I was thinking about Kim."

Your intuition was right, and you were glad that you waited until she told you herself before you risked coming across a jackass. Amanda admits that Nadia's death rattled her more than she expected. Learning about how close she and Erin were, reminded her of how close she once was with Kim – before all the shit that happened two years ago. She tells you that she hasn't heard from her since and she's run multiple scenarios over and over in her head about where she could be and what she could be doing. She was on the run from the police so she must've changed her name. But who even knows if she's still alive?

The possibility that Kim might be dead sends a tremor of dread throughout Amanda's body. She doesn't even cry anymore; she just stares off into space like she's in shock. You rub her back and try to get her back down with you and try to remind her not to catastrophize. There's nothing you can say to assure her that things are fine because you don't know where Kim is and, frankly, you don't give a shit. But you know, that despite everything she put Amanda through, there's still love there. They're still sisters.

You kiss her on the forehead before you start to get up. She tugs on your arm, effectively stopping you. When you look down, her blue eyes are so big and so broken and all you want to do is pick her up, make her forget, and rebuild the ruins left behind by the people who've hurt her. There's no time machine for you to change her past and make it better, but you can still pick her up and help her forget – if that's really what she wants.

So, you carry her, arms tucked under her knees and shoulder blades, and you lay her down on the bed. And although you two would never say these precise words out loud without cringing, you make love to her. Because if you called it anything else, it just wouldn't be enough.

* * *

 **Nick**

"Sergeant exam, huh?" She asks, trailing her finger across your chest and tugging at the hairs. You narrow your eyes but she smiles playfully before she kisses the sore spot.

"Yeah, Fin, said he wasn't interested in the job so I figured I'd take the exam and see where it goes."

She perches her chin on your chest. "And what about LA?"

You raise your arms unsure of what answer to give. The truth is, you're not really sure what you want to do yet. Last week, when Cynthia told you that they were flying to San Diego on the first of July, you were convinced that you were moving to the West Coast. Even your Ma liked the idea; in fact she's staying with Sonia right now looking to buy a house with a pool so she can have her grandchildren around all the time. She's been sending you pictures of properties, telling you about the real estate prices in LA compared to New York. The only family you have left in the city, if your Ma decides to move, is your Papi and your 28-year-old stepmom, Gabriela. You shake your head and smile wryly, looking back and wondering when in your life your family turned into a telenovela.

But you hadn't even told Liv yet. And that was part of the reason why you weren't sure if it was wise to leave. SVU had been your life for the last four years, and while it had been challenging; you can't imagine just leaving your partner. Even if, technically, she wasn't your partner anymore because she was your boss. You were still too much of a wimp to tell her.

The only person who knows about the prospect of you moving is Amanda. She's been fair and objective this whole time, saying your kids would be thrilled. A part of you wishes she'd just tell you what she really felt about the whole situation. You want her to tell you she wants you to stay. And you wonder if that would be enough. Would it be fair to your kids if you stayed for a woman who you didn't even call your 'girlfriend'? Would it be fair to Amanda to ask her to move across the country for you? How would you even start that conversation?

So, you tell her that you haven't made your decision yet, which is true, but also you don't like talking about it because it just bums you out. Besides, learning about the open spot for a sergeant in the squad is making you seriously reconsider. You're leaning towards staying, anyway; and if you get bumped up the ranks, then that decision would be made for you.

"I think you should take the exam with me," you suggest.

Her eyes widen. "Right… Like Liv is ever going to pick me for second in command."

"Fin doesn't want the job, I don't know if I'm staying… or hell, if the brass can even forgive me for all my sins. Who knows? They'd probably laugh me out of the building if I mentioned I was taking the exam. And no way Carisi is going to get the job over you."

"So, I'm like the third best and second worst option?"

You chuckle but press a kiss on her forehead because you didn't mean it like that. In fact, you'd argue she was the second best and third worst option. "If you're worried about Liv, I can talk to her. I know you think she doesn't trust you, but it's been over a year since that thing with Murphy… I'm sure she's over it."

She shrugs and pouts. "So, if we take this exam together, do we get to be study buddies?"

"I might've already gotten a head start," you shyly admit. "But we can spend lots of late nights poring over the books…" you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively and she pokes your ribs. "Besides, we'd probably get better scores if we tried to compete against each other… like in the batting cages." You remind her of the little impromptu excursion you had a few weeks ago when you demolished her score with your swing.

"Or the shooting range," she challenges right back, her mouth turning up to a confident smirk.

"Okay, okay, you're Annie Oakley," you say, raising your arms up in surrender. "Some guy said it once and you never fail to remind me."

She grins and cocks her head to the side. "Can you even live with yourself knowing you have to take orders from me?"

"I don't have any problems taking orders from you in the bedroom, so I don't see how it's any different." She smacks your arm and grits her teeth, but you know she's just messing around.

You roll on top of her and pin her down. She squeals as she tries to move under the weight of your leg pressing down on her hips. Bending down to kiss her, you sweep her hair off her face and let the silk strands run through your fingers. She fervently kisses you back, arching her spine to get into even closer contact. She wraps her arms around your back and trails her fingernails along your skin. She moans when she feels your lips slide down her throat, her sternum, the underside of her breast. Your name comes out as breathless whisper between parted pink lips.

 _Stay_ , your dick tells you.

When it's over and you're both panting in a heap of tangled sheets and limbs, she crawls up to rest her head on your shoulder. Her blonde hair splays across your chest and it tickles as you're breathing in and out. It starts out as a laugh because your body feels hypersensitive. But then the laugh grows and Amanda's laughing with you. And you don't really know why you're cracking up, bent over with your sides hurting; but it's going to be this deep, bellyaching, tear-inducing laughter that will be the death of both of you. At this point, you're both just in hysterics over the sound of each other's laughter. She buries her head into the crook of your neck and her breath tickles and you're losing it like a madman. And she's your madwoman.

 _Stay_ , your heart tells you.

* * *

 **Amanda**

 _{And here we are in Heaven  
_ _For you are mine at last}_

"What's the name of the patient?"

"Nick Amaro."

"Bullet wound to the abdomen." The nurse says as she flips through a chart. "He's in surgery."

"I know that," you reply, the agitation bubbling to the surface. That's what you've been trying to tell her. You were there by his side when EMS came to the scene. You were there holding his hand in the ambulance. He was so out of it but he was still cracking jokes about how bullets seem to gravitate towards his six-pack. The female paramedic giggled and you saw red and glared at her until she resumed her job. You were there when his eyes closed on the way to the hospital. You begged him to stay awake, squeezing his hand as the paramedics inserted needles and tubes into his body.

Thank god his eyes opened when he was wheeled into the ER. But the relief, if you could even call it that, only lasted a minute before you heard the trauma surgeon roar from behind the curtain. "Clear an OR! We need to get him to surgery!"

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

It's been two and a half hours and still no word. You get a call from Fin tallying the deaths from the courthouse shootout. He gives you the number. It's two. Maybe three. Two people dead on the scene, but someone from Johnny Drake's camp was caught in a shuffle. Last he heard the guy went into hypovolemic shock on the way to the hospital. Besides that "no one else is injured," Fin says. And you want to yell at him and remind him that Nick is in the fucking hospital and you don't know if he's going to fucking live or die because no one will fucking tell you anything. "Shit," he mumbles. "I'm sorry, Rollins… I just… I thought you were talking about what's goin' on here… How's Amaro?"

You tell him what you know, which isn't much since you haven't heard any developments since you overheard the trauma surgeon. It's all you know. It's another hour of torture before you stop a nurse and ask her if she knows anything about Nick. She looks at her tablet, scrolls down a spreadsheet, and points at a number like that's supposed to make any sense to you. "He just got out of surgery. He's in room 623."

You barely manage to breath out a 'thank you' before you're sprinting down the hall. Someone in your path yells at you to slow down and watch where you're going. But you surge on and pass the elevator. You head for the stairs; it's six flights up but your legs aren't even tired when you make it all the way up to his door. It's closed but you can see him through the small window; he's lying in bed with wires and machines all around him. His tanned skin looks pale under the hospital's unforgiving fluorescent lights. Your hand reaches for the doorknob and you turn it slowly, but stop when you hear footsteps approaching.

It's the squad. Even Liv is there, and you know, normally, she would be there for Nick. But at this time you can't imagine her leaving Noah with anybody. She looks distraught and you're not really sure why. Her problem is dead. Johnny Drake is dead and Olivia Benson is alive. Nick jumped in front of her and took the bullet meant for her. You know this isn't the kind of thinking cops are supposed to dwell on, because these are just the hazards of the job and taking bullets for your partner is the sort of loyalty cultivated by the NYPD. But you can't help but feel resentful right now, because Liv gets what she wants. Johnny D is dead, she's alive, and you're sure once this all clears up she gets to legally adopt Noah. She gets everything. And Nick takes all the sacrifices.

Your anger is stripped off the moment she reaches you. And you feel like complete and utter shit when you see the tears welling in her eyes. She grabs you by the shoulder. "Is he okay? Amanda, please tell me he's okay?"

Your sergeant shakes you but you just stare blankly back at her. Your anger and your hatred are crumbling in your chest. You lower your head. "I just got here. The nurse said he just got out of surgery."

It's strange once you all get inside because Nick is still asleep; so, you all just sit down on whatever surface you can find and wait. The doctor comes in and tells you that the surgery went well, and no major organs were hit. If everything goes as planned then Amaro should recover with no problem. You all breathe a sigh of relief. It's another half hour before he stirs from sleep. He greets everyone with that boyish and charming smile. He tries to scoot up on the bed but grimaces in pain; he decides it's better to concede defeat than to pretend he doesn't have a bullet wound in his abdomen.

Everyone gets his or her turn to say something. It starts with cheering him up, but when Fin calls him an ass for scaring him like that, you're all back to ribbing each other like it's any day in the squad room. His eyes land on yours and you smile, and it's the kind that can't go unnoticed anymore. You're both done trying to keep things a secret in the squad room. You're not stealing glances, smiling when no one's looking, sneaking off into the cribs or the stairwell because you just have to satisfy this basic impulse to kiss him.

Nick's shot and none of that clandestine bullshit matters anymore. Screw the department. You rush to his side and reach for his hand. He pulls you down and he kisses you on the cheek. Liv, Fin, and Carisi look a little surprised – some more than the others – but you don't care because he's alive. You're smiling and crying as your fingers interlace.

When they all leave, it's just you and Nick. The bed isn't that big, but you help him work around the tangle of tubes and wires so he can scoot over and give you some space. You crawl over to the left side of his body. His voice is growing tired but he keeps talking because he's just so happy to be alive and so happy that you're here. He runs his fingers through your hair and it gets caught in a knot. You laugh softly as he tries to untangle the mess, but you know it's futile; sometimes you just have bad hair days. But he says you're lying because he's never seen one of those days. "You're always beautiful, Amanda."

It's the drugs, you tell him. But his eyes lock on yours and they're clear and full of honesty. He repeats the compliment as he caresses your cheek; and although it makes you blush to hear it, you believe him this time. The sky shifts a deeper hue. You can tell Nick's body is willing him to go back to sleep because his lids are getting heavy and his voice is getting raspier by the second.

"Amanda, I'm moving to California."

"Oh."

He closes his eyes for a few seconds before he opens them again, like he's trying to squeeze in a ten-second nap to refresh him. "I can't leave my kids… Not by choice and… god, not because I'm shot and killed on the job."

"Mmm… yeah, I understand." You're not lying. You do understand. And it makes total sense that a near-death experience would open Nick's eyes and make him see what really mattered in life. He's making the right decision and you convince yourself that you'll support him. You don't have to like it. But you'll live with it. What's important is that you didn't lose him; he's still here. He will always be here. He might be moving 3,000 miles away. You might have always been skeptical with regards to long distance relationships. You could already picture yourself crying to sleep every night and growing numb. But he's here and he's alive. You didn't lose him. And that's what matters most.

"I want you to move with me." He cranes his neck down to meet your eyes. "Will you come with me?"

You lace your fingers together but you avoid his gaze. It's a big step. You want to chalk it up to the drugs and the near-death experience – that's why he's springing this question on you. It almost feels like he's backing you up against the wall and forcing you to make a choice. But you're just not ready for that. So, you don't give him an answer and hope he'll take it as an 'I'll think about it'. He exhales deeply and closes his eyes. The arm he has wrapped around you tightens around your body. He kisses and mumbles something onto your forehead. And then Nick is asleep.

Once you're positive that he's out like a light, that's when you let the tears fall. You're crying because you were more scared than you've ever been in your life. You've had guns pointed to your head. You've taken a bullet to the shoulder. But none of that came even close to the possibility of losing Nick. And yet there he was asking you to move with him, but your cowardly ass still couldn't give him the answer you both wanted. So, you cry because the feelings overwhelm you and it builds up in your chest and it needs to be released one way or the other. And you're not really sure if it's anger or fear or sadness or relief… or _care_.

God, you just care so much about him to the point where it physically hurts now. The pain he feels is the pain you feel. It's too much. You're getting his hospital gown soaked in your tears and you're so afraid your sobs will wake him up. And then you'll be screwing with his recovery, and –

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but visiting hours are over."

It's the nurse from earlier. She looks sympathetic but she's just doing her job, so you crawl out of Nick's bed and stand over his sleeping form. Stroking the soft, dark waves, you lean down and press a kiss on his forehead. You're not really a forehead kisser; it's never been your style. But he does it to you whenever he senses you're feeling sad about something, and it never fails to pick up your mood. It's those simple things that make you feel like he really does care about you. It makes you feel like he wants to be with you… he needs to be with you just as much as you need him.

You take a cab home. You apologize to Frannie for being gone so long, but you're relieved when you see that her bowl is still half-full. Nick remembered to fill it up this morning while you were frantically trying to find the missing shoe to your courtroom ensemble. You take a long shower and stand under the hot spray, thinking about Nick's question. You weigh your options. You love your job. You love this city. You love your partner, and you would even go so far as to say that you love having Liv as a boss and you love having Carisi as that annoying brother you never had. It's so strange to say that you love these things and these people, when you've never allowed yourself to think about that four-letter word in such close proximity to another four-letter word that defines it completely.

N-I-C-K.

 _I love Nick._

You're crying again but the shower is masking those tears. It's not mournful tears because he almost died, or because he's leaving without you; it's tears of elation because you finally took a wrecking ball to those walls you've built up. You love him. The realization hits you and instead of running away from it, you embrace it and let yourself fall into it. It's the kind of love that consumes you. The kind of love that makes you want to feel everything that he's feeling – the highs and the lows, the misery and the bliss. The kind of love that makes you believe in the impossible and the unthinkable. The kind of love that only deals in absolutes.

The decision is made. You're going to march into his room and tell him you're moving with him. Not just that; you want to tell him, show him, prove to him that you love him. The elevator doors open and you walk down the hall, surprised, to meet your squad standing outside his room. You furrow your brows as you walk towards them, and when they turn to see you, the secret smile you've been carrying around all morning fades away.

Something is wrong. You feel like you've been gut punched. It's confirmed when they all try to explain it to you. One voice goes over another and it's a teetering tower of words and you're just waiting for the inevitable fall.

"We got here and he wasn't in his room anymore."

"He needed surgery again."

"Internal bleeding."

"He'll pull through."

"It's Amaro. Of course, he'll pull through. He has to.''

"Amanda?"

"Can you hear me?"

"Amanda?"

 _Please. Please. Please. Please._

Doors at the end of the hallway open and the trauma surgeon from last night walks out to meet the squad. Liv is the first to take a step forward. She clasps a hand over her mouth to hear about how the surgery's going. Carisi is leaning against the wall and Fin is leaning on the opposite side. They exchange a grim look before they turn back to the doctor. You're standing in the middle of it all, far enough that you don't have to look at the doctor's face, but near enough that you can hear his words.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Chest tightens under a vice-like grip. Air feels like it's trapped between your lungs. The hallway is a tunnel and everything around you spins in circles; all you can see is the end – the door where that doctor came from. Where Nick Amaro is lying down on some cold table, his body ripped apart by scalpels. In a room where lives are saved everyday, but his life – the life that matters to you most – slips through their medically trained fingers.

"He didn't make it." The doctor's words bring you back to reality and if you weren't so traumatized, you would have lunged at him. This isn't on Nick. It wasn't him who didn't make it. It was their fault. They let him down. They let him die.

Liv is clutching her chest with one hand and her head with the other. Fin reaches over and holds her up before she falls to the floor. Carisi has his head in his hands and he's crying. He's fucking crying. And my face is dry. You've squandered all your tears. Your lip quivers but you don't cry; You're too numb to do anything, say anything, feel anything.

The doctor turns on his heel and walks away. Just like that. You release your breath and you feel a tap on your shoulder. It's the nurse from who told you visiting hours were over. You scowl at her and terror flashes in her eyes before she pulls a small box from behind her back. "Are you… Are you Amanda Rollins?"

Your squad looks up and stares at the nurse. You're all waiting for her to say this is all a big misunderstanding, and it turns out that the patient, Nick Amaro, was transferred to a different room – that he's actually still alive, watching Sports Center, and eating green Jell-O. But she looks like she's about to cry. And you have to prepare yourself for the worst. Again. Even though you know you've already heard the worst.

You nod your head and she lifts the box to drop it into your palm. It's a square, black velvet box. A knot forms in your stomach. You're not sure what's going on. It feels like a really bad dream and you're conscious of it, but you're too paralyzed to do anything about it.

"EMS found it in his pocket," the nurse explains. "When I returned it to him, he asked me to hold onto it… in case something were to happen." Her voice breaks and she purses her lips. "He asked me to give it to you in case –"

You nod your head, telling her that she doesn't have to finish the sentence. She feels relieved as she takes a step back and disappears down the hall. Your fingers run over the velvet box. It's the first sensation that your mind picks up that isn't confounded in a whole slew of other emotions. Your nail digs into the seam and you inwardly curse Nick if it turns out to be a fucking diamond ring, because it would be really stupid and obnoxious of him to ask you to marry him when you haven't even determined that the two of you are in a relationship.

He's not even your boyfriend. He never was. And the vice tightens around your chest.

But it's not a diamond ring. It's a white gold necklace with a simple bar between the thin chains. There's an engraved inscription on the front: 29 E 3 A. To anyone else, it wouldn't make any sense; but it hits you immediately like a freight train. It's the address to Duffy's. Your Duffy's. The bar where you still have a full bottle of scotch with the name Rollins-Amaro under the reservation. The bar where you two had your first kiss. You always knew Amaro was a down-low Casanova, but he had certainly outdone himself this time.

The smile that graces your lips betrays the pain in your chest. You dig the pad of your thumb hard against the edge of the pendant. You flip the necklace over and see there's another inscription in the back. And you hate him. The hatred and the anger rise up your chest. You fucking hate him. God, why did he do this to you? That fucking asshole!

 _I love you._

The engraving in the back says 'I love you' – those three words with the four-letter word you've been tip-toeing around since your first kiss… maybe even before that. He had this necklace made and he kept it in his pocket for god knows how long. He asked you to move 3,000 miles away with him. And all this time, he never said it. It could have changed everything. You could have said 'yes' last night, and maybe you would've seen his smile one more time. You could've stayed with him until the morning. You could've known something was wrong, gotten to him sooner… maybe it would have saved his fucking life.

But instead, he was too much of a coward to tell you himself. He waited… waited for the perfect moment to give you this perfect gift.

Well, the perfect moment is never going to happen. So, fuck him.

Fuck him for getting to say 'I love you' when you never got to.

Fuck the universe for taking that last chance away from you.

"I love you."

It's only a whisper. Tears finally fall from your eyes and down your cheeks. Your back heaves powerfully before the sobs overwhelm your frame. Fin and Carisi are at your side in an instant but you push them away almost too forcefully. Liv takes a step towards you but you send her a deathly glare. You don't want anyone to touch you.

"I love you."

You grip the box containing the necklace and you feel it slowly slip from your fingers. When it hits the linoleum, the loss of contact echoes the real loss that's eating away at your heart.

"I love you."

This time louder. You say it to Nick but he's too far gone. Too far gone to hear it.


End file.
